


Still Waters

by Robin_Fai



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And I'm not sorry, Angst, But then he came back!, Cause I love that pair, Depression, Ditto., Drowning, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I didn't intend it, Morse also left, Peter Jakes did leave, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump, but it really does read like it, but more passive than active
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22104655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Fai/pseuds/Robin_Fai
Summary: Morse took the job in London. He wonders why.Jakes left for another station. He never met Hope.Three people died, but a long time ago.All this comes together at a time when Morse really needs a friend, but as always, nothing ever goes to plan.
Comments: 45
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself I wouldn't start anything long right now. Yet here we are. I tried to write another one shot and some time later it has 5 chapters. I really don't know what this is, or if it is any good. It started as a 'what if?' character study that got out of hand. I'm hoping it isn't too terrible. So here we go...
> 
> **Warning that this is pretty heavy on the depression, and some suicidal thoughts.**

_altissima quaeque flumina minimo sono labi_  
(the deepest rivers flow with least sound)

– – –

Winter was his least favourite season. The dark in the mornings, the nights bearing down on him all too soon. Days were short, and his heart leaden. Every action seemed to require an additional level of energy that he no longer possessed. Each morning saw the cold work its way steadily a bit deeper into his soul. 

Morse took longer and longer to convince himself to rise. The routine became a kind of torture. The alarm slicing through the numbness of sleep. Then the need to drag himself from bed, wash, pull a comb through his hair, find something passably presentable to wear, eat toast, drink tea. One by one these small, yet crucial, things began to fall by the wayside. Breakfast skipped, tea substituted for water, his clothes getting steadily more crumpled and tired. 

He would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, time stretching before him like some kind of trial or sentence, his limbs so heavy he didn’t know how to begin to lift them. After a while he would rouse, but only because he had to. Money, purpose, duty, he needed those things, so he needed to go to work, he needed to solve crimes, punish people, push back the bleak hopelessness of it all for one more day, hour, minute.

Having fought for so long to get his Sergeants, the anticlimax that came with having it handed to him one day had left him edgy, unable to settle into the new space he was meant to inhabit. Going to London had been the worst choice he had ever made. He found himself utterly anchor-less, cast away, drifting ever further from the shore.

Being lonely was not an unfamiliar feeling to him, but London had been different. He became faceless, no one really knew him at all, most didn’t event know his name. He became ‘Sergeant’, just that, not even ‘Sergeant Morse’. The station was so big that he became nothing more than a part in a machine, relegated to paperwork more often than not. People didn’t hate him there, but then that was because they didn’t know who he was. One day he awoke to the terrible realisation that no one had called him by his name for a week, let alone had a conversation with him that extended beyond the case at hand. 

Days became a battle between his will to live, and that part of him that didn’t want to die exactly, bit did want it all to just stop. He lay in bed longer and longer, until one day he just didn’t get up. He had been supposed to be working. No one even noticed his absence. He worked through Christmas and New Year. There were no decorations in his flat, and no cards found their way to his door.

The next day he handed in his notice. His superior officer had frowned at it in confusion for a minute, glancing up at Morse covertly a couple of times, no doubt trying to place who he was exactly, then shrugged and dismissed him without another word. 

He packed up his bags, and headed back to Oxford the next day.

– – –

Bones curved out of the soft earth, arching towards the bitter skies. Their weathered length marked by the ravages of time, stripped clean of the flesh that had once bound them, and washed clean of the earth that had hidden them by the indifferent waters of the river.

Thursday shoved his hands deeper into his pockets in search of the last vestiges of warmth. A uniformed officer stood nearby breathed into his curved palms, the warm air that escaped curling and dissipating into the January air in clouds of white vapour. Jakes stamped his feet against the sodden earth in search of the circulation that had recently abandoned his toes.

It was good to be back out doing real detective work, rather than shut up in his office, but he would have rather it had been for better reasons. Their latest DC had been so hapless that he had left within a month. The previous one had lasted almost three before transferring to another station. He could have refused the request, but honestly he had just been glad to see the back of him. The boy had been lazy as anything, and not the brightest to go with it. 

Most days now he found himself longing for Morse to return. The lad had been insufferable sometimes, but he was sharp, intelligent, and never shirked his duty. Half the time the problem had been to get him to stop working, long hours after he should already have left. He had a suspicion that half the cases that currently stood open could be wrapped up in a matter of days if they had him back. Strange had been a good steady presence in his absence, but he had soon been sequestered by the higher ups for an administrative role. He was clearly marked for a more illustrious path than any of the rest of them.

Jakes was a good ally to have back at least. He had changed since his stint working up north. His sharp edges had been softened. He was still prone to making cutting remarks about other officers, but he was careful not to make a show of it, and it was usually warranted. It still puzzled him that he had decided to return to Oxford at all given the ghosts that awaited him here, but Jakes didn’t tell, so he didn’t ask. 

They needed to find another DC or DS soon though. Bright had made it clear that Thursday was needed back behind his desk, and that Jakes needed some decent help in place before any big case landed on their plates. He took a moment to be thankful that the skeleton jutting from the collapsed riverbank was likely to be ancient history, and so nothing that would cause them undue worry.

– – –

He’d come back for Morse. All those months before, when he had left, it had been because he had thought leaving Oxford behind would mean leaving behind his past. It had followed him of course. Peter had learnt the hard way that he couldn’t flee things that were part of him. In the end he had found himself longing for people that knew why he was sometimes a little bit rough around the edges, more bravado than true confidence. He had thought he hated people knowing, but the haunting shadows of his memories became so much darker when no one knew they were there.

He had been disappointed to find Morse gone when he returned. Thursday and Bright knew of course, and that helped, but from time to time something would come up and their pity would show through. Morse had been sorry for what he had gone through, but he had never looked at him with pity. He told himself that was all it was. Morse had been interesting to work with in a way that no one else could quite approach. Moreover, he found himself secretly yearning to really _know_ the man, what he was like when he wasn’t a detective, and regretful that he had never even considered seizing the opportunity when he’d had it.

Oxford, he found, was blunt without the presence of their most prickly officer.

They were getting nowhere in their latest case. The skeletons of three women had been unearthed on the banks of the Isis. At first it had been assumed this would be an archaeological matter, but then DeBryn had announced that the remains were more likely to have been buried around 15 years previous, and they had been forced to re-evaluate. His days now consisted of trawling the missing persons announcements across several years in the early fifties. He was certain there had to be a better method, but he had no idea what it could be. Morse would have known.

– – –

He took a room in a house near the colleges. The other residents were all students. It was a tedious place, full of irregular noises, and doors banging at all hours of the night. Despite their own volume, it was made clear to him within a couple of days that playing his records was not going to be tolerated by the others. They were young, and full of the self-assured, obnoxious, nature that came with coming from money and knowing your future was all there, laid out for you, with no effort required.

His room was up in the rafters, in a small uninsulated attic. It served a purpose. He had a roof over his head (literally) and it was cheap. The location was good for offering tutoring to students. It did exactly what he needed it to, but it was cold, lonely, and soulless. He hated it.

Something in his heart stopped him from looking up the very people he had come back to Oxford for. He had enjoyed the company of Thursday and Strange, sometimes even Bright, but he wasn’t sure if they would count him as a friend. He hadn’t heard from them during his time in London. Amidst the chaos of his last days in Oxford he wasn’t even certain if he had passed his new address on to anyone. He had thought of writing to them, calling, but then what would he have said? His new life had been so empty, so devoid of anything worthy of conversation.

There was Joan of course, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to reopen that wound any time soon.

There was also the shame that hung over him like a sword. That he had failed cut him deeply. The idea of facing those he had left behind and admitting that London had torn away at him until he was but a shadow of the person he had once been trying to be was agonising. 

So he didn’t return to the life he had come running back to. He scraped by with enough to survive, but he was only existing, not living. His students called him ‘Sir’, his housemates eyed him with evident suspicion, and his landlord only communicated by means of reminders slipped under his door whenever he was out. He was residing in a kind of purgatory, constantly waiting on peace or punishment.

The newspapers, and their window onto the world outside of the cell he had built for himself, were his last refuge. The crosswords though, once a sort of solvable salvation from the confusion and chaos of life, became inaccessible to him. He would raise his pen to begin, but the words would drift and blur, the questions muddling in his mind, the solutions elusive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have most of this typed up and am editing it now, which is the only reason this is being put out there. I held off until certain it wouldn't be 'short' like the last one!! Anyway, so the updates will be pretty regular.


	2. Chapter 2

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,  
And in his simple show he harbors treason...  
Henry VI part 2

– – –

With no progress having been made on the case for two weeks, Thursday came to the inevitable conclusion that they needed help. The bodies were young, adult, female, and, and had died around 15 years previous. They had nothing else to go on. No evident cause of death, nothing to identify them, no traces of clothing or jewellery to help them on their way. 

A local archaeological expert had surveyed the scene and advised that he was of the opinion they had all been buried at the same time, and likely before 1954, as there had been flooding that year that had left markers in the soil that appeared to be above their graves. DeBryn had also worked with him on the skeletons and come to the conclusion they had probably all been from good backgrounds as their bones bore no signs of malnourishment, illness, or injury.

Jakes had turned up nothing despite trawling all the open missing persons cases for the whole of the county for a 5 year period. He had commandeered some uniformed officers to look through the papers of the time, and sent messages to neighbouring forces requesting they check their own records, but he was at a loss for what else to do.

One missing young woman having gone unnoticed for this long might have been plausible, but three? If the archaeologist was right and they had been buried at the same time, then that made it even worse. Three young women vanishing at once would surely have attracted someone’s notice. That was all before you began to look at the logistics of transporting three bodies to a remote river bank and burying them without anyone noticing.

He sighed and rested his head in his hands. They needed Morse. He picked up the phone and dialled the number he had looked up that morning. 

Several minutes later he set the receiver back down with an even deeper frown than he had worn before.

– – –

Morse’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he read the paper. The police were appealing, _again_ , for anyone that might have information that would assist in their enquiries concerning the three bodies that had been unearthed on the banks of the Isis. To put out another appeal spoke to him of the desperation that must be behind such a choice. There had been less reports than he had expected, the papers clearly reluctant to keep repeating themselves too often. He couldn’t see that any real progress was being made from an outsider’s viewpoint.

 _An outsider..._ That’s exactly what he was now, and it stung.

Something about the case niggled at him all through the day. He was distracted through his session with his latest student, Young, and found himself walking towards the station afterwards, unconscious of the route he was taking. He stopped in his tracks a street away from the station, catching himself. _What was he doing here?_ There was nothing he could add to any investigation, he knew nothing, and he was nothing.

Turning abruptly, he collided with someone else on the pavement. After he had steadied himself, his eyes coming into focus sluggishly, he had a second shock. The tall, smartly dressed, dark haired man he had collided with was all too familiar to him. Peter Jakes. What was he doing here? He had left for a new start somewhere up north. Where it was he had gone eluded him like so many things did these days. His mind was a scattered mess. His thoughts and memories were like faded, fallen leaves, brittle and blown about by an unpredictable wind. He desperately hunted through the fog of his thoughts for what he should say.

“Jakes? What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing!” Jakes was unreadable as ever. “Thought you were in London?”

Morse shoved his hands in his pockets to hide their tremors. He didn’t want to talk about London. “Thought you were in…” He wanted to deflect the question with one of his own, but he had forgotten that where Jakes had gone was evading him.

“Manchester.” Jakes finished for him. He shifted uncomfortably and fished out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a drag before continuing. “Yeah. Didn’t really suit me. Decided to give Oxford another go. You?” He turned the question back on Morse once more.

He looked at his shoes, they were in desperate need of a clean and polish. Suddenly he was all too aware of how scruffy he must look. He was wearing casual clothes that evidently needed to have met an iron before he put them on, and there was a hole in his coat. He picked at it self-consciously.

“Oh… you know.”

– – –

Peter really did not know.

He had been heading back to the station after a local call out, and had caught sight of someone walking ahead of him. The figure looked vaguely familiar, but their head was bowed as they walked slowly along, so it wasn’t until they stopped and looked up and around themselves that he properly recognised him. _Morse._

For one glorious moment he thought that this was the man he had left behind. He hurried along the street to catch up to him, and swiftly crashed into him as he turned around. Once he was steady on his feet again he really took in the man that stood before him, and was lost. This was not the Morse he had known. Yes, he was scarily thin, so much so that he looked gaunt, ill even, and his clothing was way beyond its usual level of scruffy, but it was his expression, or lack of it that really worried him. He had never seen Morse looking so... blank. His face was normally so animated, expressive, to see it this still, plain, it was unnerving.

Their conversation was stilted, awkward. He didn’t want to talk about Manchester, and Morse clearly didn’t want to talk, at all. Peter watched as he avoided eye contact, picking at a hole in his frankly worn out coat. When he finally did reply it made no sense. He stumbled for what he should say to such a ridiculous reply. He wanted to say _‘No, I don’t know – tell me.’_ or _‘What do you mean by that?’_ but he found himself unable to take that leap. 

“Why are you in Oxford?” He asked in the end. Hopefully Morse’s answer would help him to understand the previous one.

Morse shifted on his feet, still not looking at him. “Just… wandering about really. Needed to stretch the legs.” He replied. Peter, still none the wiser as to what was going on wanted to press him, find a question that would get a real answer, but then Morse abruptly looked up and said, “Well, I best be getting along.”

It threw him off, the suddenness of it. “Ah… right, yes, of course.” He smiled awkwardly, Morse’s expression remained that same awful blank. “Would you-” He began to ask, but Morse spoke over him.

“Well, It was good to see you.” Morse began trudging off along the street without waiting for Peter to continue. He hesitated for a moment, then dropped his cigarette, and hurried after him.

“Wait!” He caught a hold of a bony shoulder. Morse jumped as though he’d received an electric shock. “Sorry,” he held his hands up in apology, “I was just going to ask, if you’re not busy that is, if you fancied meeting up later? Beer and a catch up? That sort of thing.”

Finally, something like a reaction flickered across Morse’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “I’m… I’ve... got plans,” he looked away, “sorry,” he added as an afterthought.

“Oh, right, of course...” He was lost for what to say, Morse clearly didn’t want his company. Or maybe he really did have plans. Either way he was worried. He pulled his notepad from his pocket. “This is my number, and address. Look me up if you have time while you’re in town.” He handed over the scrap of paper. Morse took it, frowning down at the untidy scrawl. “Its good to see you, Morse.” Again there was a flicker of something. Morse nodded, stuffed the paper in his pocket, and turned away once more.

There was a knot in Peter’s chest as he watched Morse’s slow progress down the road. He really had been glad to see Morse again, so why did it feel like he had just seen a ghost?

– – –

The last thing Thursday had expected when he called London was to hear that Morse had resigned a month ago. That was once the officer he was put through to managed to recall who Morse was of course. It concerned him the way the man had spoken of Morse, as though he were nothing more than a statistic. How could anyone not notice Morse, of all people, enough to recall who he was when asked.

He had got Morse’s address and phone number (read out from the file by an indifferent duty officer) at least. The phone number when he called it was disconnected though, and he had a suspicion that Morse may have moved. He was frowning down at the notes he had made from the call when Jakes knocked and came into the office.

“You’ll never guess who I just saw, Sir.”

He looked up and took in Jakes’ odd expression. He had never known what the lad was thinking. “Go on?”

“Morse.”

He couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. “Morse?”

“Yeah, out on the street.” Jakes hesitated, seeming unsure of his next words. “I think he was headed here, but then he turned around.”

“He say what he was about?” 

“No. He… err… he seemed kind of cagey. Thought he might have been visiting.”

“Did you get his details? Where he’s staying and the like?”

“No. He… he seemed in a hurry. Passed him mine though.” Jakes fidgeted with a cigarette, passing it through his fingers but not lighting it. There was more to it than he was saying.

“Bit of a coincidence - I’ve been trying to get a hold of him today.” He gambled.

“Oh?” Peter’s grip tightened on the cigarette, distorting its form.

“Yes. Thought we could do with a bit of his brainpower on this one. Called London to see if we could borrow him.”

“What did they say?”

“That he resigned. A month ago. Phone number disconnected.”

There was no mistaking the shock on Jakes’ face this time. His hands stilled in their mutilation of the cigarette. “What? You’re not serious.” Thursday nodded. “Why?” Jakes was frowning now, a strong show of emotion for the normally impassive sergeant. Thursday spread his hands wide and shrugged. The chief super in London hadn’t given a reason. Jakes let out a long breath. “You think maybe he’s living back here, in Oxford, then?”

“Possibly. Id’ve hoped he’d have looked me up in that case though.” 

Jakes nodded, and surreptitiously shoved the ruined cigarette back in his pocket. “Yeah, fair point. You two always were close, right?”

He didn’t want to discuss the whole Joan situation with Jakes. He felt quite guilty about it really. He knew the lad had a good heart. Whatever he had or hadn’t done there was no doubt he had done it with the best of intentions. “In a way.” He replied, avoiding the topic. “But he left for London in such a hurry. Didn’t even leave his new address.” He hadn’t asked. “So we lost touch the last few months. Do us a favour, eh? If he calls, or you see him, ask him to call me. Tell him I want him on this case if he’s up for it.” 

Jakes nodded his agreement and excused himself from the office. There was still more to it than Jakes was saying, the space of it in the words he hadn’t said, ominous in its absence. Thursday was left even more baffled than ever. _What had that been all about?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse really needs a hug. And Jakes. Maybe that's why I like the ones where they are together more. Then they both get hugs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I now realise from comments I ought to have mentioned: This is set 1968, so a divergence from end of series 4 on. Morse had the offer of a London job September 1967. Joan still lands in hospital, but he does leave. I also wanted Peter in it so he still leaves exactly when he did, but for different reasons, and comes back some time later in 1967, after Morse has gone.

_the river runs so clear, runs so fast it blinds us  
meanders to the sea, turns back and surrounds us  
lifts us up, takes us down, the eddies swirl and bind us  
you and me, you and me_  
A River Runs - Oysterband

– – –

Morse contemplated the drink in front of him. His flat was as cold as ever, so the fire of the strong liquid as he drank it was a welcome respite from the bite of the chill air. For the first time in weeks he had felt something. The break in the numb void he had come to call his daily life had woken some challenging thoughts. Feeling was painful, it was hard, but it was better than the nothingness. 

He fished the crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. Jakes’ handwriting hadn’t improved any since he last saw him. Jakes had seemed… different than the last time he had seen him, though he couldn’t say how. It had been good to hear someone use his name, talk to him about something other than work of some kind, but they had never been friends exactly, so what would they have to say to one another if he did call him?

Setting the paper aside he downed his drink and poured himself another. It was still early in the evening. There were several hours still before he could give in and sleep, and they loomed over him in all their endless monotony. 

Maybe it couldn’t harm to meet Jakes for just one drink? He couldn’t afford much more.

– – –

The sound of his phone ringing jolted Peter out of light sleep he had fallen into after he collapsing on his sofa when he’d gotten home. He jumped up to answer it, disorientated. _Who was calling him at this hour._ He checked his watch as he picked up the receiver, answering sharply, “Hello?” It was only 7.30. Not late as he’d thought then. He felt suddenly guilty for the harshness of his tone of voice.

There was a long pause then “Is that Jakes… Peter, I mean... Peter Jakes?” The uncertain voice on the other end of the line was all too familiar. It was Morse. 

“Sorry, yes, its me Morse.”

“Oh. Good...” There was a long pause.

“What’s up?” He prompted.

“What?”

“Why did you call?”

“Oh, right, yes… My… err… my plans for this evening fell through. I was wondering if you’re still on for that drink?”

Peter suspected he’d never had any plans, but he wasn’t going to argue. “Sure, sounds good. Shall we say eight? The usual?” They had never been social drinkers together, so ‘the usual’ was a bit of a stretch, but when he thought of all the lunches they had spent there with Thursday he thought it could just about count.

“Alright. I’ll see you then.” Morse hung up before he could say anything else, so he presumed he knew what he’d meant.

It took him a few minutes to get changed and smartened up after his nap on the sofa. He wasn’t sure why he was worrying about it really. It was just the pub, just Morse. Yet he’d missed the other man, more than he was ever willing to admit.

He ought to call Thursday, let him know. He did consider it, but eventually left without doing so. A small, selfish, part of him wanted this evening to be just about them without Thursday’s easy rapport leaving him in the background.

Morse was sat in a booth when he reached the pub, with two pints of beer and a newspaper in front of him. He didn’t look up as Peter made his way over. _Engrossed in the crossword as usual_ , he thought. Maybe he hadn’t changed so much. But when he got closer he saw that the pen he had brought was sat on the table too, and there wasn’t one single clue filled in. The frown that cut Morse’s gaunt face into deeply lined sections made him look paradoxically both much younger, and much older, than his actual years. In the brighter light of the pub he could see there were deep shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair was a tangled mess.

Peter slid into a chair opposite. Morse jumped again, as he had earlier, and the frown slid from his face. “Evening,” 

“Hello.” Morse gave him a tight, forced smile, and pushed the second glass towards him.

“Thanks.” There was a long silence. If this was going to be the level of conversation this was going to be a long evening. He took a quick drink to break the tension, the flavour of the drink familiar and comforting. He smiled at Morse. “You remembered what I drink?” Morse shrugged and once again silence fell. “Not doing the crossword?” He indicated the paper still folded in front of Morse. 

To his surprise, Morse almost scowled at the paper and pushed it to one side, centring his drink in front of him instead. “Not really in the mood for it today.”

“You? Not in the mood for the crossword?” He laughed, and Morse gave him another false smile. That fake twist of his lips was fast becoming his least favourite of Morse’s many expressions. He dropped the subject. “Mentioned to the Old Man I saw you earlier.” He commented, and took another sip of beer, peering over the glass to try and gauge Morse’s reaction. 

“Oh?” Morse’s query was quiet, even, but there was something more there.

“He said you’d packed it in with the force in London.” Again, a hint of an expression, but nothing he could place. The fear he had been carrying since they had met earlier settled a little deeper into his chest.

“How… how did he know that?” Morse asked. There was an edge to the question.

“Called your guv’nor. Wanted you in on this case we’ve got going.”

“Oh. The bodies by the river?”

“Yes.” 

“I thought you two would’ve been keeping in touch.” He couldn’t help himself, he had found a loose thread, and now he was compulsively unravelling it.

“Things got… complicated… before I left.” Morse took a long drink and avoided eye contact.

“What you doing now?”

“What?” 

“Work, what you doing for work?”

“Oh… nothing much. Just… keeping my options open really.”

“I’m sure the Old Man would have you back if you wanted. We need another DS anyway.” 

“Oh.” Morse turned his glass around with his fingertips. “I… I don’t know. I think maybe… I might be done with policework you know?” He shrugged one shoulder, the action reminding Peter of a bird flexing a wing.

“Really? But you’re good at it. Better than me anyway.” Morse looked up, tilting his head in curiosity, furthering the bird image. “Come on! At least lend us a hand with this one case. That might help you decide.”

“Maybe.”

Peter decided that would be the best he was going to get from the taciturn man sat opposite him, and changed the subject. They chatted a while about their respective interests and hobbies. Well, Peter chatted, Morse spoke, but there was an emptiness to his answers. He evaded giving a real answer to even the most direct of questions. Still, it felt good, drinking and talking with a real friend. He wondered when he had begun considering Morse that way. This had to be the most bizarre friendship he had ever known, but it was definitely that to him.

He headed over to the bar to get a second round in. Glancing back at Morse he found himself smiling genuinely for the first time in weeks. He was glad they had run into one another. Now he just needed to make sure he convinced Morse to join them in the case. Once Thursday got even a glance of the state Morse was in he would be on the case, feeding him up, making sure he looked after himself. God knows the man needed it right now. He looked guiltily at the beers he had ordered, and quickly added some crisps to the order.

– – –

He watched as Peter got their next round from the bar. Morse had never expected to enjoy the other man’s company so much. He had missed him after he left of course, he kept him grounded, stopped him from the worst excesses of his self-destructive nature. Now he found they had more in common that he had realised. Not in terms of interests certainly, but in their natures, their motivations, the things that kept them going, it was like looking in a mirror sometimes.

Should he go back to the police? That had certainly been his intention when he’d come back to Oxford, and it would pay a hell of a lot better than tutoring. One case. What could be the harm in that? As Peter said; it might help him to decide. 

Peter interrupted his thoughts as he landed the beers on the table between them along with four bags of crisps. Morse eyed the bright packets with confusion.

“Didn’t know what flavour you’d want.” Peter said in explanation, but then proceeded to open all four packs. He grabbed a couple from the nearest packet with a laugh at Morse’s expression. “Go on, help yourself, Its like a really crap buffet!” 

By the end of the evening all the crisps were gone. He hadn’t realised how hungry he had been and held a suspicion that Peter had conned him into eating more than his fair share. They passed the time easily. Mostly Peter talked. He wasn’t being intentionally cryptic, he just still couldn’t bring himself to talk about the last few months, or to reveal how little there really was to say. He hadn’t realised the man could be so chatty. Normally he was quiet, apart from the occasional cutting remark or put down. He teased at Morse from time to time through the evening, but it was never hurtful, and he found himself almost smiling. 

Last orders were called, and Morse was startled to realise they’d been talking for almost three hours. They made their way back out into the cold February night. The street lights hazy in the fog that hung in the air. 

“Where you living now?” Peter asked him, not for the first time.

“I’ve got a room, not far from here. Its only a temporary place. I’m looking for somewhere else.” It was the most honest he had been all evening. Apart from the bit about looking for another place. He couldn’t afford more, and something told him it was pointless, he was stuck in this rut and couldn’t see himself getting out. 

“You are going to come in tomorrow, right?” Peter’s usually blank expression was now bright with hope. He found himself unwilling to disappoint him.

“Alright.” He conceded. “Well, I best get going.” He ducked his head, awkward, not sure what they were now exactly. This was unfamiliar territory and he had no idea how to proceed.

“It was good to catch up.” Peter smiled at him, and he couldn’t help but wonder how often he had ever seen the dark man smile so genuinely. “See you in the morning then!” Peter grasped his shoulder in farewell and then set off along the street, slowly disappearing into the translucent veils of mist. 

The cold desolate room he now lived in was less appealing than the street at this point, but it was all he had, so he made his way back there slowly, his feet dragging, his shoulders hunched. He clung to the warmth he had felt in the pub like a lifeline all along the walk back, and up the stairs, until he stood in front of the door to his room once more. He stood there for almost a full minute. It was mad, he knew it was, but it felt like once he had gone in, once door closed behind him, he would be sealed back into the bubble he had been trapped in for months now. He had felt like he could breathe tonight, normally it felt like he was suffocating – drowning in dry air.

All his dreams that night were of water all around him, not quite sinking, not quite floating. It filled his every pore, made him dense, heavy. Struggling he knew was useless, so instead he just hung there, suspended in the flow, not quite drowned, not quite alive.

When his morning alarm went off it was like his body broke the surface, but his mind remained lost to the depths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The eagle eyed among you will have noticed I added another chapter. My self-control slipped and the last chapter got away from me somewhat. But it is all typed now ready to edit, so that will definitely be it.
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments. It makes me really happy to know folks want to read this one as it really was unplanned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, the quote for this chapter is just for you Ghostiekitty.

_Tous deux au Styx allèrent boire ;  
Tous deux, à nager malheureux,  
Allèrent traverser, au séjour ténébreux,  
Bien d'autres fleuves que les nôtres._  
Jean de La Fontaine, Le Torrent et la Rivière

– – –

Thursday was surprised to see that Jakes was in early. He had kept the car overnight so he had made his own way in as soon as he was ready with no need for Jakes to collect him. He didn’t know why he was in such a hurry. It wasn’t like he had any reason to get to the station ahead of time, but he kissed Win goodbye and headed off all the same. When he entered the CID offices Jakes’ head shot up from the paperwork he had been inspecting. Once he recognised Thursday he raised a hand in greeting, but it was evident from his expression that he was not who he had been hoping to see.

“Morning. You expecting someone?” He asked.

Jakes shifted a little in his seat, the only outward sign he gave of any discomfort. “I saw Morse last night. Thought I had him convinced to come in today, help us with the case like you said.”

“It is early. He might be along in a bit.”

“Hmm… yes.” Jakes did not sound convinced. He understood why. Morse was habitually in early. 

“So he is living in Oxford then?” He didn’t want to ask, but he needed to know. Jakes dipped his head in a brief ‘yes’. It hurt the lad hadn’t looked him up, had seemingly turned his back on police-work. He tried not to think about how much of that had been his fault. He hadn’t always been the most supportive he could have, and he knew he’d made mistakes over the whole Joan situation. Still… it stung. “You got his contact details?”

“No.” He waited for Jakes to offer more information, but it didn’t come. His poker face was firmly in place.

“Right, well then, give me a shout if he puts in an appearance.” 

He crossed the room and shut the door to his office, for once grateful for the modicum of privacy it afforded him. Normally he would have preferred to be out in the thick of things, but now that Jakes had dropped a Morse shaped bombshell on his morning he decided he needed a bit of peace in order to prepare. He couldn’t say if the fact that Morse had agreed to come in was making him more edgy, or if it was the possibility that he wouldn’t show, and they sill had no way to contact him.

The morning dragged on in a tedium of small tasks. He received updates from everyone working the river trio case, not that they really had anything to update him on. It was beginning to seem like a lost cause. After a tea break he stopped by Jakes’ desk on his way back to his office. They were discussing a break in that had happened a few days previous when he realised Jakes’ attention was no longer on him, but instead fixed on the doorway behind him. He turned and found himself facing the source of his morning’s unrest. Morse.

Greeting him, going over, shaking his hand, that would have been the right thing to do. He did none of those things, he was frozen in shock at the state of the lad. Christ, had he eaten _anything_ since he last saw him? Or slept? He had thought after some of the things he had seen Morse go through that he had seen at his worst. He had been wrong. It didn’t even look like he’d combed his hair recently, and his suit was a state.

Thankfully Jakes had the sense to get up and greet Morse, since he was still standing in the middle of the room like a lump. This must have been what Jakes had been avoiding saying. He wished he had said something. This was serious, the lad needed help. Thursday shook off the haze that had come over him and hurried over to join them, putting on a smile to try and cover his shock.

“Morse! Good to see you lad!” He would have shaken his hand, but they were embedded deep in his pockets.

“Sir.” Morse replied quietly. There was none of the usual animation in his features. This was really bad. Win would kill him when she saw the boy. After she fixed him up of course. Something had changed after Joanie had come back and she’d been asking after Morse for weeks now.

“Jakes tells me you’re going to help us with this wretched case.”

“I don’t know. I doubt I’ll be much help.” Morse ducked his head to avoid his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously.

“I’m sure we’ll have it cracked in no time with you back on board.” He clapped him on the shoulder. He was certain Morse would find the answers that were eluding them. It was just his kind of case. Then he would just have to find a way to get him to stay. Morse twisted his lips in an imitation of a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s get you set up. Your old desk is free if you’ll have it.”

– – –

The rest of the day passed in the blink of an eye. Morse was reading through and going over everything they had gathered and done so far on the case. At first he sat stiffly in his chair, but as the hours passed by he gradually relaxed, settling back into his familiar posture. It was comforting having him there, but that comfort was equally balanced out by the ever growing concern he had for the lad’s well-being. Every so often Thursday would find a reason to get out of his office and catch up with the lad, or with Jakes if he was running low on excuses.

At one point, when he was loitering with Jakes, Bright came into the room, presumably in search of him. He raised a hand at Thursday in query (no doubt over his continued absence from his office) then stalled as he caught sight of Morse. The smile that crossed Bright’s face was warm and genuinely pleased. 

“Morse! I hadn’t heard you were back with us!” Bright shot Thursday an accusing look and it only then occurred to him that this was exactly the sort of thing he should be informing him of. 

“Sir.” Morse nodded and stood up, the tension he had carried with him when he arrived swiftly returning. “Just visiting. I’m… helping with this river case.”

“Oh, capital. That will be most appreciated.” He drifted over towards Morse. “So, what can we do to persuade you to stay on, eh? We need another officer in CID and we’ve sorely missed your astute nature.”

“I’m sure I’m more of a hindrance than a help most times.” It was said as though it were a joke, but Morse’s voice was full of a quiet certainty that it chilled Thursday to hear. Surely the lad didn’t really believe that? He caught Jakes frowning again. He wasn’t the only one to notice then. 

“What nonsense!” Bright said exactly what they had all been thinking. “I can’t pretend that I can always follow your theories, but I dare say we’d have a fair few major cases still unsolved if it weren’t for your input.”

Morse tilted his head, forehead lined with confusion. “Thank you, Sir.”

“And how has London been treating you, eh? You look like you’ve been ill.” Again, Bright cut to the heart of the matter in the simplest of ways.

Morse pulled another of those wretched fake smiles and dodged the question. “I’m back in Oxford now. London wasn’t for me.”

Bright smiled again, “well then, their loss is our gain, eh?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Right, well then, now that’s settled, Inspector, if you have a minute?”

Thursday was pretty sure nothing was ‘settled’ yet so far as Morse was concerned. He followed Bright back to his office.

– – –

Peter knew the exact moment when Morse caught on to a lead of some kind. His previously blank expression was suddenly replaced with one of focussed irritation. He waited to see if he would say anything, but when several minutes passed with Morse scowling at the document in front of him he decided he would have to ask.

“Got something?” 

Morse jumped and spun round to face him. “What?”

“I said, have you found something?”

“I… I’m not sure. One of these names...”

“What names?” Peter stretched and got up to see what Morse was looking at.

“The nearest residents. I thought… I thought I recognised one, but I can’t place where from.”

“Another case maybe?”

“No… it seemed... familiar. Like I know them?” Morse wrinkled his nose and rubbed at his forehead. Then he sighed and shook his head. “It’s no good. I just can’t place it.”

“No doubt it’ll come back to you when you’ve got one of your records on.” 

“I’ve been banned from playing them by the other residents.” Morse said absently. Peter had to stop himself from reacting. Morse evidently didn’t realise this was one of the very few real pieces of information he had shared about his life now he was back in Oxford.

“And you’re still living there?” He said it as nonchalantly as possible. He was nervous to disturb this brief state of honesty, but Morse without his music? It was unthinkable.

Morse shrugged one shoulder with a sigh, “can’t afford anything else. Honestly, the place is awful. I really do need to move.”

“I’ve got a spare room.” The words were out of his mouth before he’d even had a chance to consider them. What was he doing offering Morse a place to live? “Been looking for a flatmate,” he hurried to add in case Morse thought he had offered out of pity. 

“I’d drive you mad in no time.” Morse was looking at him with an unreadable expression. He didn’t care what it was, it was something, anything other than that awful void.

“I’ve been assured that the walls are incredibly soundproof.” Morse raised a querying eyebrow at him, almost smiling with it. He felt warmth flood his face. He was _not_ going to divulge how he had found that out to Morse of all people. “Apparently the previous tenants were in some kind of band, or something like that. Soundproofed the bedrooms after they got complaints.”

“I… I don’t know. I’m really not good company.” Morse’s mask slid back into place, but Peter took solace in the fact he hadn’t said ‘no’ outright.

“Look, I know you, worked together long enough after all, and I don’t mind your company. I know your quirks, and you know mine. I’m not the best company either, but the place is nice, and cheap. Give it some thought.”

Another polite smile was plastered across Morse’s face. He’s going to refuse, he thought. But then Morse surprised him by saying, “alright. I’ll let you know.”

Peter smiled and returned to his own desk. He lit a cigarette and tried to work out what had possessed him to offer Morse a place to live. He tried to still the twin worries that he now had to obsess over; what if he said yes? What if he said no?

– – –

Being back in the station had not gone as Morse had been expecting. Several people he had been sure hated him had stopped him on his way up to CID to say they were glad to see him back. Then there had been Thursday, who it appeared had gotten past his issues and was welcoming him, and Bright who seemed to think he had just agreed to take his old job back.

The work was all reports reading and catching up with the paperwork of the case. Normally he would have hated the tedium of it, but now it was actually interesting. It was nice to stretch his mind a little. He had become so stagnant tutoring bored and disinterested students who really just wanted someone to fix their work for them, not someone to teach them how to do it themselves. He was slow, the fog that stopped him from doing his crosswords was still in place, but now there were breaks in it, small patches of light and clarity amidst the grey. 

Of all the surprises of the day, Jakes offering him a room in his- house? flat? (he realised that he hadn’t asked where he was living these days) - was the most significant. He had wanted to turn it down flat, but hadn’t wanted to be rude. Then he’d thought it over some more, and he’d begun to think that perhaps it wasn’t the worst idea. Jakes did know him well, so he would know what he was getting into. Maybe he should say yes. Two people fighting over a bathroom instead of six certainly had its appeal, and he would be able to play his music…

Before too long it was the end of the day, and Thursday and Jakes were packing up. He felt like a spare part once more. He didn’t know where he fitted in this routine. In the past he would have driven Thursday home, now that was not his responsibility. Or he might have stayed on later, but he wasn’t even a police officer, let alone a detective sergeant, right now. Shuffling the papers in front of him, he tried to make sense of his place in this new scheme. 

“Ready to head home?” He jumped at Thursday’s voice behind his shoulder. “Sorry lad, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” He tried to think what the question had been but it escaped him. “Well? Do you fancy a lift? Jakes said you’re in town somewhere at the moment. He could drop you off.”

“I’ll be fine walking… but thank you for the offer.”

“Don’t be daft, It’ll take no time. Practically on route.”

He wanted to accept but the thought of the awkward journey was too much. “Honestly, Sir, I could do with the fresh air.”

Thursday looked at him with evident regret but let it drop. Morse quickly gathered his coat and left. It sounded like someone called after him, but he didn’t stop to see who.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't know. I could probably have condensed this. Compared to my other fics this is a lot more introspective and slower paced, so possibly overthinking it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reasons this work became 6 chapters rather than 5? This chaos you're about to receive. Change of pace much?
> 
> Advance warning that this gets... well... dark. And a warning if you have any issues with drowning. (I have so much fear of water from being dropped in a pool as a young child but I find near drowning scenes strangely cathartic.)

_It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,  
They said._

_Oh, no no no, it was too cold always  
(Still the dead one lay moaning)  
I was much too far out all my life  
And not waving but drowning._  
Not Waving but Drowning - Stevie Smith

– – –

Morning brought the same tortuous routine, but this time he felt something more that just the dull emptiness that he had for months. When his alarm went off, he found himself able to get up rather than lying there waiting to see if anything happened. He wanted to get to the station. He wanted to get back to work. It felt like dawn had reached him for the first time in months.

There was a queue for the bathroom. Normally he would have given it up as pointless, but today he joined the line, then took his time getting washed up and cleanly shaven. To hell with the entitled sods who were banging on the door. They seemed to live in this bathroom, and he paid just as much rent as them, he was entitled to his fair share of time in there.

Back in his room he contemplated the still packed boxes that littered the floor, a couple open, their contents spilling over the floor. It wouldn’t take long at all to get those moved. He could do it this evening if he felt like it. _Was he seriously contemplating saying yes to moving in with Peter Jakes of all people?_

His energy levels weren’t miraculously better. It still took him far longer than was healthy to get dressed, and he didn’t manage breakfast, but he battled the shared kitchen for a cup of tea, and ironed a shirt that needed washing really. He would have to do some laundry soon, but even the thought of it was overwhelming. At least it would look a little more presentable, if he could hide the stains. 

He made it to the station only ten minutes late. As he walked in the door he reflected that since he wasn’t actually employed, and just helping out, there was no ‘late’, but it still felt that way.

Jakes was out collecting Thursday still so he settled in at his desk (it struck him as odd how quickly he fell back into thinking of it as ‘his’ desk) and pulled out the papers from the day before. 

Today, what had worried at the back of his mind, but would not come clear though the fog, hit him with full force. _He knew where he had come across that name before! He knew why three bodies by a river had caught his attention!_ A quick scan of the notes for the address and he was set to go. He scrawled a note for Thursday and Jakes and set off, heedless to the risk he could be taking.

– – –

Peter scanned the room when he arrived back with Thursday. No Morse yet. His heart sank a little. He didn’t want to examine why he was so disappointed. Morse had come in later yesterday, he would probably do the same today. Thursday paused in front of him, obviously doing the same, then headed in to his office.

They had been a fair bit later than usual arriving back as Thursday had been requested to drop in on a sudden death that had been called in overnight and give it the all clear. There had been nothing suspicious, and a quick inspection had revealed tablets for a heart complaint. They had then made their way in, neither admitting to the other that they were in more of a hurry than usual.

Peter sat down at his desk and began organising the paperwork there. It was then he noticed it – the brief letter in Morse’s unmistakeable hand. He was back up, and out of his chair, in moments and rushing to Thursday’s office. 

“Sir! Morse has been in. He left a note. He’s gone to see one of the local residents – on his own. Says he thinks he’s our man. Something about medical records? It doesn’t make much sense.” He offered the scrap of paper to the Inspector. He took it, already standing, ready to go. 

“What was the thinking?! He’s not got any kind of ID, no warrant, and if this man has killed three people… why would he go on his own? The lad’s an idiot.” Thursday shoved the piece of paper in his pocket and grabbed his hat and coat. “Come on, if we take the car we should get there pretty quick.”

They hurried from the office, only pausing long enough for Peter to grab his own coat and the car keys, and set off in pursuit. Peter felt the adrenaline rushing through him. This was the side of working with Morse he had not missed. Why couldn’t he have just waited a few minutes for them to get back?

– – –

No one answered the door at the small farm cottage, so Morse began a loop around the property to see if he could locate Mr Taylor. It had been years, but he was sure he would remember what he looked like. He had been unusually tall, with dark eyes that were burrowed into his face under thick, wiry, eyebrows. The image of him raving at the staff was burned into his memory. The way he had screamed at them as they dragged him away… These were not memories he liked to think of.

There was no one around, and the building was securely locked up, so he set off back along the towpath towards the river and lock. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the tall figure that stepped out from a shaded area of trees and began following him. 

They carried on that way until they reached the bridge. Morse was part way over when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and immediately froze. He did recognise him. His hair was white now, longer, wilder, but his height, and those eyes… He turned around to face the man who had now stopped a few steps away. 

“You been poking around my house.” It was a statement, an accusation, not a question.

“I’m with the police… just wanted to… to follow up on your statement.” He tried to keep his voice even, but couldn’t help stuttering a little. It had only just occurred to him he had no warrant card now.

“Like hell you are.” Taylor scowled at him. “Don’t I know you?”

“I don’t believe so.” 

“Liar.” Taylor studied him, “You’re no more police than I am. I know you from somewhere.”

“I think you must be… mistaken, Sir. I’m… I’m with Cowley CID.”

“Try with a bit more conviction next time.” Taylor reached into a pocket of his coat. “If you’re police then show me some ID eh?”

Morse met his gaze as evenly as he could, all his senses were screaming at him to run. “Of course.” He moved to reach into his pocket, but Taylor drew a gun from his own and swiftly pointed it at him.

“Stop that now! Hands up! How do I know you don’t have a weapon?” There was a look in the other man’s eyes that scared Morse more than the gun he carried. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands. 

“I’m unarmed Mr Taylor. I… I don’t want any trouble… just… doing my duty.” His heart was hammering in his chest. He had seen this man at his worst. He hoped desperately that he had come a long way from there, but then he thought how much he himself had changed, and how he had ended up just as numb as he had been back then, so what if Taylor had done the same? No, he had to hope he was in a better place. 

“I know you… I do! Tell me where from. _tell me!”_ Taylor levelled the gun at him. He was shaking with a barely controlled anger.

“I… I don’t know… Michael, please!” Morse shrank back against the railing of the bridge. At his words, Taylor’s shaking stilled, his eyes narrowing, and Morse realised his mistake. His name was listed as John Michael Taylor. Only someone that knew him would know he went by his middle name.

“Lincoln. The hospital. You were just a slip of a lad. Shouldn’t’ve been there.” Taylor laughed, “so you know. You know ‘cause I was telling them all back then. They wouldn’t listen to me. You did. So you know.”

“I… you’ve got me mistaken for-” Morse desperately tried to reason, but Taylor cut him off.

“ _I am NOT mistaken!_ Now turn around. Now!” Morse eyed the gun nervously and did as he was told. “Now over the railings.”

“What?” He looked back at Taylor, “surely you can’t-”

“I said OVER!” He pressed the gun to the back of Morse’s head to emphasise his point before stepping back a little.

Morse stared at the river below, and the iron railings in front of him. There was no space on the other side of them. He would be risking falling in to the dark, reflective, waters if he climbed over. Then he realised that had to be the point of it. 

His world narrowed to the small space he stood upon. He had spent so long wanting it all to end, now he was facing it, he wanted nothing more than to live. Taylor shouted at him again, his words distorted and hollow, like he was already beneath the water. He gripped the railings. The cold of the metal bit into his skin, shards of flaking white paint embedding themselves into his skin. His whole body shook as he carefully lifted himself over the railings. He dug his heels back on the solid surface of the bridge, but his toes were suspended in the void between him, and the drop. He kept a firm grip on the bars behind him. 

_“Now jump. Jump or I shoot.”_ The words were distant through the roaring in his ears. 

He was a good swimmer. He could get to a bank, get to safety, but up here he couldn’t dodge a bullet. He wanted to live. Taylor was mad. This was his only chance. He took one last deep breath, and let go...

– – –

Thursday couldn’t quite believe it. Morse hadn’t even been back two days, wasn’t even officially an officer, and he was already running off on his own into dangerous situations. Didn’t he ever learn?

Jakes’ face was set, his usual casual demeanour replaced with a tense set about his jaw. When had those two become something other than enemies? They were unlikely friends, but it seemed that’s what they were now. Well, it was evident Jakes cared about Morse’s well-being at least. Heaven only knew what Morse thought of this sudden change in attitude, and if it was reciprocal.

They pulled up at the car park nearest the lock and made their way along the footpath. Taylor’s cottage was on the other side. One of only a handful of properties in this area. They had canvassed them all in case it turned anything up, but only two people had actually lived in the area back then. Taylor had been one of the two. He’d seemed an odd sort, but harmless enough, and claimed not to know anything. They’d not eliminated him from their enquiries, but he’d not been a suspect either. Morse’s note had mentioned medical records, but they had none of those for the man, so he had no idea what that was about.

He was still trying to puzzle out what had set Morse after Taylor when he walked right into Jakes, who had suddenly stopped walking.

“No – NO!”

He looked to see what had caused his Sergeant to shout in such uncharacteristic alarm, and then he saw… His heart seemed to stop for a moment, breath catching in his throat. In the distance, he could just see a figure on the bridge. _On the wrong side of the railings._

Ahead of him Jakes was already running, and he set off in his wake. 

_What was he doing? Why would he do that?_

He had known he cared about the lad, worried about him more than the others, but in that moment he knew that Morse was like a son to him. If he lost him… No, they’d get there, talk him down. His lungs were burning as he ran, and ran, desperate to reach him.

Then his world tilted, and fell, as Morse jumped. Everything slowed to a series of snapshots.

“MORSE!” He shouted. It was futile. He had already let go. 

_What was happening?_

Further up the path, much closer to the bridge, he heard Jakes shout too. 

Morse hit the water, and didn’t surface. 

Before he could even think what to do, Jakes was shedding his coat, jacket, shoes, and tie and had jumped in from their side. 

He began swimming across the wide, clear, stretch of river in the direction they had last seen Morse.

Morse still hadn’t surfaced.

On the bridge he caught sight of someone else running.

– – –

He hit the water hard. The awkward position his arms had been in had made it harder to try and aim himself to enter the river right. The shock of the cold was harsh and immediate.

He needed to get to the surface. 

Under the water the current was stronger than he had been expecting. It pulled him down, kept him under. 

He struggled, trying to get control, work out which way was up. His lungs hurt already. All he could think about was breathing. He needed to breathe. He needed oxygen.

Fighting against the water, he regained some control. He was out of the min flow of the current, but he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was take a breath. His lungs were burning.

He felt the riverbed as he hit it. Could see the sky, a distant light at the end of a very long tunnel. He wanted to swim, to get to that beacon, but his limbs were like lead, unresponsive, and oh so heavy. 

Confused, his mind filled with images of all the people he had loved in one way or another through his life, his mother, Joyce, Susan, Monica, Joan, Thursday, Max, Strange, Jakes… He wouldn’t see them again. 

Odd thoughts assaulted him. He should’ve just taken his old job back. He should’ve waited for Joan to wake up. He’d never get to know what it was like to live with Peter...

Against his will he took a breath, water filling him up, everything was water now, he was lost to it.

His throat was tight and painful.

He wanted to live. It wasn’t fair. He was a good swimmer. This should’ve been the safer choice. 

_He wanted to live._

Everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me! Please! I'm editing the last bit as fast as I can. 
> 
> I never meant to leave it at this point but the chapter just wouldn't end and this just happened to be the mid-point.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we go, last one! Hopefully you all survived the wait after that unintentional cliffhanger.

_there are no certainties  
we could fall, we could break apart  
you pick me up, you smile  
then the whole world starts  
a river runs through you and me  
never reaches the ocean, never reaches the sea_  
A River Runs – Oysterband

– – –

The panic that shot through him when he saw Morse hit the water was like being struck by lightning. He hesitated only long enough to realise he hadn’t surfaced again before acting.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, everything he’d ever learned about lifesaving just kicked in. His summer spent as a lifeguard at the local pool suddenly had previously unforeseen benefits. He knew to remove his heavy outer layers so they couldn’t drag him down, and his tie and shoes. He got in the water and began swimming across to where he thought Morse could be as quickly as possible. Every second counted. 

It felt like it took an age to get to the other side. For all the water here was smooth, it was wide, and the current wickedly fast. 

Once he was far enough over, and having judged his point of aim by the pull of the current, he dived under the surface. 

The water wasn’t completely clear, but thanks to the pull of the flow it was much better than it could have been for this time of year. He looked around and caught sight of something a short distance away. He surfaced, swam in what he hoped was the right direction, took a deep breath and dived again.

_He could see Morse!_

Morse seemed to struggle for just a moment, then stilled, small bubbles rising from his mouth and nose. 

_NO! He would not be too late!_

With strong strokes he moved with the current until he could touch Morse. He was still, partly resting on the riverbed, his hair drifting around his head in a fiery halo, eyes closed. 

There was no time to lose. He got a grip on Morse’s body and pushed off towards the surface. It was hard going with the dead weight he carried. The current was strong even here and it pulled at them. His lungs protested, screaming for air. The surface inched closer, and closer, then finally they made it. He broke into the open, gasping as the cold air filled his lungs. 

Quickly he turned to pull Morse’s head clear of the water and set off for the shore. 

Distant shouting alerted him to Thursday running along the bank to meet them. He caught up to them just as he was dragging Morse up onto the bank. 

He needed to do something. Morse wasn’t breathing. He needed to save him. 

He moved to begin CPR but Thursday gently moved him out of the way. He had just run a long way, but he hadn’t swum the river, and so was a lot better placed to help Morse now. He collapsed, rolling onto his back on the wet grass. 

Now that Morse was out of the water his clothes clung to him, delineating every sharp edge, every jutting bone, he was so very thin. The dim morning light made his pale, blue tinged, skin look almost translucent. Hair, made darker by the water, clung to his scalp like seaweed. He was so still. 

_Too still._

Thursday was desperately doing chest compressions, but what was the point? He’d been too late. They’d lost him. 

He stared at his friend’s face, willing himself to see those blue eyes once more. 

Then, abruptly, Morse’s eyes fluttered open and he was coughing up a river.

– – –

Thursday looked at the shivering wreck wrapped up in his coat on the riverbank. He looked like death, and yet somehow he looked more alive than he had done the day before. It had taken an age to get the two soaked lads back across the river and lock. In the end, once they’d got safely back across, he’d had to leave them both on the bank and run ahead to call for an ambulance.

Jakes was claiming to be fine, but he also looked rough, and it was far too cold for him to be out in soaked clothing. He had his own dry jacket and coat at least, but he refused to leave Morse and walk on to the car. They were both idiots he decided.

The question of what had happened hung over them, unspoken, and as they waited for the paramedics, he decided it couldn’t wait any longer.

“Morse, lad, can you explain...” He wasn’t often lost for words, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask if he had intended to drown. 

Luckily Morse understood. “Taylor had a gun… He… he said I could either jump, or he’d shoot me. I thought the river… I didn’t… I would never...” He closed his eyes, ducked his head, trying to hide the tears now flowing down his face.

Thursday placed a reassuring hand on his back. “It’s alright lad… It’s alright. I understand.” 

Suddenly Morse’s head shot up again, his eyes wide with fear “Did you get him? Taylor?”

“No, not yet, but we will.” He knew what he would like to do when he got a hold of him.

Morse swallowed and dipped his head again. He looked so fragile, as if a stray gust of wind could break him. There was nothing on this earth that would stop him seeing to it that Win got her way and looked after the poor boy for a few days. 

“He’s mad, you know, Taylor.” Morse began speaking again, low and quiet. “He… he had three daughters… except they weren’t his, and… somehow no one knew. One took her own life and… he… he drowned the others. He said it was about symmetry.”

The paramedics and their own reinforcements came into view in the distance, so he didn’t get the chance to ask how Morse had found all of that out. He would get his chance later. Until then, he would take the backup and scour the area until he had the bastard who had nearly cost him two of his officers, his _friends_ , in custody.

– – –

Morse didn’t want to go to hospital, but there was no way he could deny he needed to go, and when he tried to protest Jakes gave him a glare that could kill. Given Jakes himself was also having to join him in the journey, he decided to stay silent and suffer his way through.

In the hospital he was soon pronounced to be incredibly lucky. He had some trouble breathing, but was otherwise fine. He overheard a few conversations between the doctors and general consensus was that he should be dead. They wanted to keep him in, but he refused and discharged himself. Jakes, who had been checked over and discharged hours before, arrived with a change of clothes for him just as he was signing the forms. He didn’t ask where they had come from, but took them gratefully.

He pulled on the underwear under the hospital gown, trying not to think about the possibility he was now wearing Jakes’ pants. Then he shed the gown and quickly got dressed. The curtain was drawn so he hadn’t thought too much about doing so, but as he did up the trousers he realised Jakes was carefully looking the other way. He pulled on the shirt, curious now. Jakes had never struck him as the sort to be embarrassed by bare skin.

He had to turn his attention back to getting dressed. His fingers wouldn’t cooperate on the buttons. After a moment he heard a quiet huff of frustration, and Jakes appeared in front of him. He batted Morse’s own hands away and proceeded to do up the rest of the shirt for him. When he was finished their eyes met briefly, and he was surprised to see Jakes almost blush before stepping away quickly. 

“You really should stay in you know.” Jakes said quietly.

“I’m fine. Just a bit breathless. Besides, you know how much I hate hospitals.” 

Jakes went to reach for a cigarette, then seemed to think better of it. “How did you know?” He asked.

“Know what?”

“About Taylor.” 

He felt as if all the air had been knocked from his lungs once more and sat down heavily on the hospital bed. Jakes was there in an instant. He held up his hand to stop him panicking. “I’m… I’m fine. Sorry.” He took a few unsteady breaths and clasped his hands together tightly, the sensation grounding him. He would have to tell it sometime, and if there was anyone that he felt might understand it had to be Jakes. “I knew him. Well… no… I met him. Taylor. He was… in hospital in 1953 in Lincoln.”

Jakes sat down next to him. “Near where you lived?” 

“Sort of. It was the… the only… psychiatric unit.” The words died in his throat. There was silence, then he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. He glanced sideways at Jakes. He looked back at him evenly and gave him an encouraging smile. “My stepmother had me sectioned when I was 15. Things were… bad. I was very low. Mostly because of the way she treated me, if I’m honest. I couldn’t see the point any more. I didn’t do anything drastic, but she told me I was weak, then had me sectioned.” He managed to finish, but it took all his remaining energy. He felt utterly drained, yet somehow lighter than he had before. He had never told anyone. The hospital had lost his records, so the army and police were none the wiser. He’d been able to go on with his education and career, but those cold, hopeless, corridors full of suffering people had left him scarred for life, and unable to speak of it for fear of how people might react. He chanced another look and was surprised to see Jakes’ brow lined with concern. 

“Shit. I’m sorry, Morse. That must have been awful.” There was no pity on Jakes’ tone, only a kind of care that he hadn’t known in a long time.

He shrugged. “I got through it, and I got out.”

“No wonder you hate bloody hospitals.” The way Jakes said it was so matter of fact it startled a laugh out of him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed.

“Thank you, Jakes. For not judging me, and… and for saving my life.”

“If you’re going to go all unusually soppy and start thanking me for things can you _please_ call me Peter at least?” 

“You want me to call you Peter when I’m being ‘soppy’?” He teased. 

Peter threw his hands up in exasperation, but he coloured a little. “You know what I meant.”

“Sorry. Thank you, Peter.” He smiled at the other man. It was a little ridiculous calling him by his surname when they were friends. When had they become friends? He wasn’t sure, but he was certain that was the only option now Peter had saved his life. He looked down at his feet and kicked them back and forth. “You know you mentioned a room? Is that still going?”

There was a pause, then Peter replied in a sarcastic tone, “no, since yesterday I miraculously found someone else I’d be willing to live with.” He laughed. “Of course it is you idiot. So, when you moving in?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Sounds good to me.” Jakes considered something then said hesitantly, “look, I… I really am...” He gave a frustrated kind of huff. “I am really glad you’re alive, and I’m sorry for the shit you went through. Just know that I’m your friend and… if you ever need anything, to talk or whatever...” then suddenly he pulled Morse into a brief hug. He pulled back after a moment. Morse didn’t know what to think. Not so long ago he’d thought himself utterly alone, and now he had a true friend that had saved his life. He felt a little like crying again.

There was an awkward silence which was thankfully broken by the arrival of Thursday sweeping into the curtained off bay. “There you are! They told me you’d discharged yourself. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He gave them a curious look, and Peter hurriedly got up and made his way out with a cheerful wave. Some friend. He felt like he’d just been fed to the sharks. Really caring sharks, going by the names Mr and Mrs Thursday, that always wanted him to eat more.

“Did you get him?” He tried to deflect. 

“In a manner of speaking.” Thursday’s face was grim.

“What manner of speaking?”

Thursday sighed, “shot himself. Once he realised we knew everything, and he couldn’t get away, he did himself in.”

“Oh.” It hit him harder than he would have expected. Taylor would never answer in a court for his crimes now. He remembered him all those years before on the ward. He had a feeling he had already been paying for what he had done for a long time.

“Can’t say as I’m sorry. I could’ve killed the bastard for what he did to you.” Morse felt himself going red at the intensity of Thursday’s words. Surely he wouldn’t have actually killed for him? Thursday must have realised he was making Morse uncomfortable because he cleared his throat and changed the topic. “Well we can discuss that when you’re well and back to work.” Morse took that as a dismissal and began to pull on the coat Peter had left for him. “What are you doing now?” Thursday demanded.

He looked up, confused by the exasperation plain on Thursday’s face. “I was going to head home.”

“Not a chance lad. Win would have my head if she heard you had no one to look after you. You’re coming back to ours for few days.”

“I’m moving in with P- Jakes tomorrow. I mean- he has a spare room. I’ll be fine just for tonight”

Thursday shook his head. “You’re in no fit state. Come on. Back to ours for now. No arguments.” Their eyes met. Morse found his own stubbornness was no match for Thursday’s right now, so he eventually nodded in defeat. “Good lad. Win will see you right.” Thursday clapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t want a fuss, but it was nice to be cared about. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It was almost like having a real family. 

He followed Thursday out of the ward, covertly wiping at the tears that had once again worked their way from his eyes. 

It was ironic that he had to almost drown to stop feeling like he was living under water. 

For the first time in months he could feel, and he felt alive, and he was glad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting, and kudos. They all mean a lot to me.  
> This was a fun little project considering it was only meant to be one chapter. I'm going to be pretty busy from now on so I don't know how much I'll get a chance to write for a while, but I'll definitely be reading ♥


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